


like a million suns

by stitchingatthecircuitboard



Series: across the universe [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, oh god oh god how does writing work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchingatthecircuitboard/pseuds/stitchingatthecircuitboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one universe, there is a boy with blue eyes and dark hair and a smile sharper than the carefully honed blade Jason doesn’t leave home without. There is a glance, a shared smirk over some undefined joke, a hand at his shoulder after class.</p><p>“I’m Jason,” Jason says, knowing the boy’s response will be that smile, wanting to see it sliver the air between them again.</p><p>“I know,” the boy says. “I’m Tim.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a million suns

**Author's Note:**

> for tea, who said:
> 
> In one of the universes, you mention Tim and Jason kissing in the library- I'd love it if you felt you could expand on that universe.

In one universe, there is a boy with blue eyes and dark hair and a smile sharper than the carefully honed blade Jason doesn’t leave home without. There is a glance, a shared smirk over some undefined joke, a hand at his shoulder after class.

“I’m Jason,” Jason says, knowing the boy’s response will be that smile, wanting to see it sliver the air between them again.

“I know,” the boy says. “I’m Tim.”

 

Tim is small and slight, except that he isn’t, except that it’s maybe just Jason unused to his new height. He moves with a confidence and awareness that Jason notes without really intending to, instinctive vigilance as much a product of growing up in Crime Alley as the pocketknife that his mother says nothing about. 

Tim’s eyes flicker to Jason’s hands as he shoves them into his pockets, and Jason thinks _he knows_ without questioning it. Tim comes from money, Jason knows, for all he attends public school and seems to have a wardrobe comprised entirely of slightly too-big sweaters and Star Trek paraphernalia, and his knowing Babs would be a surprise except that he’s next door neighbors with Babs’ boyfriend. 

The point, though, is that Jason grew up on Crime Alley, and he’s got justification for side-eyeing everyone and everything that tries to approach, for instinctively tracking hands in pockets and jittery feet and subtly shifting weight. He stays out of trouble as much as he can, his mother would have his hide otherwise, but Gotham’s dangerous and — yeah, he’d be lying if he didn’t say he loved it a little, and maybe it’s because he’s a teenager and maybe because he thinks he knows the city better than anything else.

The point is that Tim lives up next to the Waynes, barely in city limits. He tells Jason that he transferred this semester to Gotham North, and attended a boarding school for the wealthy elite before that. Someone like that wouldn’t watch the people around him as if watching for an attack.

Tim laughs when Jason mentions it, swiping a smear of relish from his cheek, hot dog in hand. “What,” he says, smiling, “are you telling me to relax in the most dangerous city in North America?”

“No,” Jason says, _of course not, we’re neither of us fools._ “Just didn’t expect it from you.”

He expects it from Babs, who takes inner city transit back to Gotham Heights every day after her shifts at the library, who’s looking for cheap apartments near the university for next year; he expects it from his mother, who never talks about some of the scars he’s not supposed to have seen; he expects it from Dr. Thompkins, who stitches people back together every day and night and who knows what happens if the city senses an opening. 

“What, ’cause I’m a rich kid?” Tim nudges Jason’s elbow with his own. “It’s okay, doesn’t make sense to talk around it.”

“Guess so,” Jason says, shrugging, and takes a bite out of his chili dog. He chews, swallows, and sighs. 

Tim tilts his head. “What’s the verdict?”

Jason takes another bite.

“Subpar,” he says at last, and pulls a fraying map of Gotham City from his backpack. “Okay. That was on 50th and Henderson, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, leaning over as Jason unfolds and refolds the map into a manageable size. “Two storefronts down from that sushi place. Here, I’ve got —” He hands Jason a transparent post-it tab. 

“Right,” Jason says, and begins to write on it in careful, tiny block letters. “Stand no. 541…” 

 

“Jason,” Tim whispers near the end of math, fingers light and electric on Jason’s shoulder. “There’s a journalism contest for city hall…Gotham narratives. Want to work together?”

Jason waits until their teacher turns his back, and twists around to catch Tim’s eyes, the fall of his hair, unexpectedly close. “What d’you have in mind,” he breathes, and Tim’s smile is blinding.

 

“I don’t know what he wants,” Jason says, muffled, into Babs’ pillow. 

Something small and harmless bounces off the back of his head. Probably her stress ball. 

“You’re a dork,” Babs says, not unkindly, “and so is he. Why don’t you just ask him?”

Jason rolls onto his back, sits up, thumbs through _The Grapes of Wrath,_ which he should be reading. “Easy for you to say, you’ve got things sorted with Grayson.”

Babs hums, noncommittal, and he looks up.

“You do, don’t you?” he asks, nervous; what kind of friend is he if he hasn’t been there for her?

“…I’m not sure, actually,” Babs says at last, but she sounds pensive rather than upset. “But I’m still trying to figure it out.” She smiles at him, easy and unstrained. “What’s the plan for the journalism contest?”

“Crime Alley,” Jason says, shrugging. “He wants to tag team it with essays and accompanying photography. He’s actually pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Babs says, amused, “he is.”

Jason flops back onto her pillows.

“Hey, Jason.”

He peers up at her.

“Want to make brownies?”

“Fuck, yes,” he says, and lets her pull him up.

 

“Okay,” Jason says, leading Tim back into the library. “There are some anthologies back here, if I’m remembering right, which we could use as basic models for photo essays. And Dr. Thompkins says you can come by at the end of my shift tonight, but you’re not allowed to photograph any patients.”

“Okay,” Tim says, and ducks around Jason’s arm to read some of the titles on the shelf. His head is at Jason’s hip, and Jason swallows, but doesn’t move except to reach for some of the higher volumes.

When he rocks back to his heels, Tim’s straightened, still, holding Jason’s eyes. Carefully, as though wary of startling him away, Tim edges closer, until barely a breath separates them. 

“Is this okay,” he whispers, and Jason nods, words impossible in his suddenly parched mouth.

“Good,” Tim whispers, smiling slyly as though about to tell a very good secret, and leans up, pressing his mouth to Jason’s, curling a hand around the back of Jason’s neck, and Jason feels absolutely useless, where to put his hands, how the hell does this work —

Tim huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Follow my lead,” he murmurs, moving forward, and Jason startles a half-step back, hands moving to Tim’s waist for balance before he quite realizes it, and Tim smiles sharp enough to cut.

 

In this universe, there is a boy with dark hair and blue eyes who doesn’t explain himself and isn’t asked to; who kisses with teeth and tongue and confidence.

In this universe, Jason kisses back.

**Author's Note:**

> jason/hot dog stands is something i've rambled about more or less coherently before, [here](http://stitchingatthecircuitboard.tumblr.com/post/75093153714/i-have-headcanons-about-jason-and-gothams-hot) & [here](http://stitchingatthecircuitboard.tumblr.com/post/75164301941/ok-ok-i-have-not-been-able-to-stop-thinking-about). apologies in advance for how completely ridiculous this is.


End file.
